She wanted a satisfactory answer. Her face demanded it. I just wanted to be left alone and continue looking through the bins.
“I don’t get it. Why?”“I’m a story teller. I’m looking for stories.”
A blank skinny white lady stare: Not good enough.
“It could be anything. A face, an expression, a place, an era...”
She offered an “OOOOK” to break her silence.
“It’s lives and stories in bins. I’m looking for something I can’t define. I know it when I see it.”
I wait for a tiny bit of understanding. Nothing.
“I’m an artist. It’s a conceptual thing. Appropriation--”
She shrugged and walked away.
I continued looking through the bins feeling very happy I was born me and not she. I am so lucky I’m not like her, a human with a simple mind, unable to live, experience and connect on different and more complex levels.
I stirred the heap of photographs, stuck my hand in and left it all to chance. When I go back for more photographs, I will take one of me and sneak it in a bin. Maybe I’ll end up on some hipster’s wall.